


Hostage

by GalekhXigisi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Eleven | Jane Hopper is a Byers, Gen, M/M, No one dies in s3 of ST, Past Child Abuse, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie gets fucked up, Trans Male Richie Tozier, Trans Richie Tozier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 16:21:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: After Richie's parents die, he realizes he has to live in Hawkins.





	1. Chapter 1

He’s been sitting silently for hours now, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s a surprise to him. He’s known the day would come for only twenty-four hours, but, he guesses he should have expected it. His parents  _ were _ Jewish, which meant that their burials came quick, funerals and all getting taken care of the instant they could be. He’s always known it would happen, sure, that they would find their way six feet below, but he’s not that old. He’s only two months into being fifteen and now watching the caskets get buried. 

Or, at least, he isn’t  _ watching _ the burial. He still hadn’t moved from his spot on the bench. His aunts had all tried to get him to come and watch, but he couldn’t force himself to do any of that, not after seeing the remains of the car wreck. He had gotten out of it with a broken arm and a shit ton of scrapes, but still escaped in generally one piece. His parents had been nowhere near it. The bloody scene left him so incredibly sick to his stomach that he hadn’t kept a singular thing down, not that he really could after all the medication and even getting his stomach pumped, but that was far from the point. 

He had metal beneath his skin now. It held together shattered bones, ones that he’s sure Eddie can’t exactly compare to. He only needed a cast, only needed a couple of months of physical therapy. From what he had heard between the conversation with his cousin Mike and the doctor, he needed  _ months _ of physical therapy ad certainly a large amount of recovery after, anyway. He’s surprised he even got out of the hospital for the funeral. But, from what he had heard, Eleven had been rather adamant that Richie needed out of the hospital for the funeral. 

The mentioned woman sits in front of him. They haven’t talked since he got in the hospital. They had only exchanged a look, just one that El understood meant that he wanted the fuck out. Even on the shit-ton of pain killers, he still understood what was happening, drugs only clouding his judgment so much. Despite that, El still sits in silence, staring forward. Richie sits with his knees to his chest, not yet ready to break the silence that had invaded the room since everyone else had gone out for the burial. 

The two typically fought, honestly, but they weren’t on bad terms. They were practically siblings, just like Mike was with Richie. They had learned to exist without too many genuine problems, just whatever came along their way. They still had petty little fights and got pissed at each other, that’s just how their personalities clashed naturally, but it was almost always resolved by the next morning. They annoyed the  _ piss _ out of each other, but that was really it. 

Richie had become so accustomed to her presence when he was in Hawkins. They were close. They had been since she first showed up when Richie was only a few years younger than he currently was. They did a lot of things together, most of which pertained to pissing off Mike in any single way they possibly could. Their antics didn’t go unrivaled when it came to the very few summer parties held by the Wheeler or Hopper-Byers/Byers-Hopper families. Last year, Richie had somehow grabbed the attention of everyone while El stole all the food with the assistance of Max, Dustin, and Robin. His mother had been furious, sure, but it was fun to leave a single tuna casserole that no one fucking liked on the table while his bandit friends stole everything. 

They’re his friends, he thinks. He’s never really been sure, honestly, He’s never once asked. They include him in their heists and Richie likes their company. They don’t seem to dislike him any more than they dislike Erica, who always seems to be there, always lurking the same as Richie did. However, she was a lot more of an underlying sarcastic smartass than Richie was, who would bluntly pepper in insults instead of those ones that Erica did that always hit hard and took a moment to process. He hopes they’re his friends. Then again, who was he to say? 

El offers a hand out for Richie. She doesn’t say anything. She just lets the limb sit in the open, giving the younger enough time to tell her off or refuse it. Instead, though, he reaches forward, the unbroken left settling in her open palm, clasping around each other. Richie isn’t in the mood to cry, so he buries his head in his knees and lets her hold his hand. She lets him hold hers, too. It’s silent acceptance, silent comfort, silent reassurance. It’s a million small, unspoken things that sit between the two. 

Richie doesn’t mind the stiff air. It’s easier to sit in silence when he doesn’t trust his voice and El wasn’t exactly too talkative when it came to comforting people. She was more of an  _ actions speak louder than words _ sort of woman when it came to these things, not that Richie really minded. He thinks he likes it this way far better than he would have liked if Mike tried to comfort him. Mike somehow had a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and turning shit on its head the same exact way Richie managed to do every single time he tried to have a heart to heart with his friends in Derry. He understood he was the comedic friend for a reason. 

No one disturbs them when everyone makes their way back inside. They don’t disturb them until Max gently taps El’s shoulder. It’s unspoken that they have to go. He’s going with them. They’re all carpooling with Mike and Will, who had somehow managed to both have their own cars and licenses before they even finished school, which Richie wanted to call bullshit on but that was something he always kept to himself. Max had her own car and both girls had their licenses, but the red car sat in Max’s driveway. It was easier on gas, easier on the two women who just didn’t want to drive despite not actually being that far from the funeral home. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Richie wakes up in a room that isn’t his own for the third time in three days. Really, he doesn’t normally wake up in his own bedroom, but no one outside of the Tozier family needed to really know just how many fights happened daily in that home. The room is too pink for his liking. The walls were bright with silk curtains and lace lampshades. He knows the room without even having to lean up or open his eyes much more than they already were flickering. It’s Nancy’s room. He’s stayed in it every summer since she moved out three years ago, her and Jonathan moving to New York. He hasn’t exactly seen them in a rather long while now. 

It means he probably fell asleep in the car when they were on their way back. He had sat in the middle in the back, still holding hands with El while Max sat on the other side of him. It had been somber, he thinks, but he can’t really remember. He just remembers Mike handing him a bottle of water with the pain killers that made his emotions go all out of whack and telling him to take them. He had, easily becoming drowsy after. He’s pretty sure someone changed the bandages on his arm and cheek, but he couldn’t be sure. He would have to ask Mike or Karen when he finally got the energy and motivation to get up. 

He wonders if the two adults and their youngest daughter are still even home. They were about to leave on vacation when they had gotten the call from a distraught Richie about his parents both being in the hospital and how the doctors didn’t think they’d make it. They weren’t the type to cancel vacations. They hadn’t two years ago when Nana finally passed away. Hell, they left for their vacation a little late, but they still  _ went. _

It takes him an hour and two minutes to get up. He stares at the world through half-lidded eyes. Sure, he fought with his parents  _ constantly _ and it had gotten physical a lot of those times, but he still managed to miss them much more than he would ever want to confess. It’s a part of him that wants to stand up for them and their actions. Despite that little bit of a person, he knows that what they did was absolutely  _ disgusting _ and rather unforgivable in his books. He isn’t going to say that, though, because that’s not what he’s supposed to do. He knew the entire  _ don’t speak ill of the dead _ shtick too well. He had shit talked his Nana once and the repercussions had left him avoiding the house for three weeks after. 

Mike and Will are both in the kitchen, holding their own mugs between their hands. On the counter sits two other mugs, both steaming. One has a black liquid, the other a dark brown. He knows what they are before Mike presses them forward and says, “We didn’t know if you wanted tea or coffee. They’re both plain, no sugar or anything.” 

Richie hates coffee. He hates it with a passion. It tastes awful without a shit-ton of different products that cost too much money are thrown in. And he hates plain tea, which sits the exact same in his mind. However, Mike is handing him two pills and offering a choice to Richie. 

He could go with tea. The tea probably has some form of caffeine or  _ something. _ It always did in the Wheeler household, even if Will had been the one to buy it. And the coffee would knowingly make him practically vibrate with nerves and whatever else. He had sworn off coffee when he was younger for a reason. So, instead, he takes one pill with a gulp of each steamy cup before pouring the tea into the coffee and shrugging, slurping down the rest of the icky concoction. He presses the empty mugs to the counter and says, “Doesn’t matter, they both taste like shit anyway.” 

He wonders how shit he looks. He always looks bad in the mornings, but this is a new low. He drank the two things he could never find in himself to like and stared down his cousin while drinking the nastiest shit he’s ever tasted next to Pepto bismal with a neutral face. He must look like a Nihilist that doesn’t ever want to feel any better, constantly raving on and on about how pointless everything is. 

Will just has a small smile on his features. “We’re making waffles if you want any.” He leans against his hand, which holds him up in a way that surprises Richie for a glasses-less second. He hadn’t even realized he had left his glasses upstairs. How tired was he? “We can put chocolate chips in them.” 

Richie shakes his head. He doesn’t think he can stomach anything right now. Instead, he asks, “Are the parents and youngest child here or did they decide to stay?” He picks up the mugs, moving to the sink. He figures he might as well earn his stay while he’s here. His parents always made him do it. 

Instead, Mike snatches up the cups, shaking his head at the slightly-shorter boy. Thankfully, Mike seems to ignore the flash of panic that crosses Richie’s face for a moment. Or, well, maybe he didn’t even notice it. His smiles falters as he says, “You’re our guest, don’t do the dishes. We’ll get them.” 

“But Maggie and Went-” 

“Aren’t here,” Mike interrupts with a harsh expression. Richie can’t read it. He doesn’t think he wants to be able to read it anyway. “Are you in the mood to do things today?” 

Richie shakes his head. “I’m exhausted.” 

“Mentally or physically,” Will asks. 

Richie shakes his hand at the other. For some reason, there’s too many questions, despite there only being the singular one left for him to answer. They seem to take the hint because Will doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He does manage to conclude, “Physically,” after guiltily watching Mike wash out the cups. “Can… Can I just go back to bed?” He lazily points at the stairs. Nancy’s old room is up there, maybe even still warm, maybe not. 

Mike nods at the other, still focused on putting the cups out to dry. He smiles softly and says, “Yeah. Your clothes and stuff are on the dresser of your room, in case you didn’t see them. Your glasses are right beside the suitcase, too.” 

It’s not Richie’s suitcase, they all know. It’s probably Went’s. Richie never traveled with anything he couldn’t carry on the run, no matter how little that meant he’d pack. That would mean his parents always begrudgingly stuffed his clothes in there with theirs in the suitcases, folded and tucked away until Richie needed them. It was something he had picked up after so many nights staying with Stanley or Ben or Mike or… Yeah, just generally anywhere but home. He had even stayed with Connor Bowers at one point in a desperate act to get the fuck away from Wentworth’s unforgiving cigar butts. He jus nods at his cousin as he retreats back up the stairs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments! I take constructive criticism!
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